Page 6 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“You’re not dead.”
The voice belonged to a grizzled face, lined and weathered as though the lake itself had beaten channels into his skin. A white beard, scruffy white sideburns, and a fisherman’s cap squashed onto a nest of equally white hair, framing dark eyes that squinted back at her. He smelled of woodsmoke and fish.
“Well?” He straightened from his crouched position over her. “Are you hurt?” The toe of his boot nudged her bare leg.
Rebecca whimpered.
Hurt? Yes.
She opted to nod and not say anything. The old man scared her. His beady eyes were fogged by so many layers of stories and time that she wasn’t sure she could trust him.
“Youarehurt.” He groaned as he bent and shoved his left hand between the ground and her shoulder. Not gently, the man pulled on her arm, coaxing her up from her position by the gravestone.
“No.” Rebecca tugged against him, shrinking away. His hand released her, and Rebecca edged backward, bracing her palms on Annabel’s grave. She stared up at the old man, who studiedher through narrowed eyes. His faded blue shirt was covered with a worn-out wool vest that had long since lost its buttons.
“I can’t help ya if you’re going to lie down an’ die.”
Rebecca eyed him.
He grunted. “Fine place you picked. Won’t have to dig deep to bury ya, I s’pose. Reckon I’ll come back tonight and take care of your remains, seein’ as the wolves’ll be by to do it themselves if’n I don’t.”
Rebecca whimpered again, this time the sound of her own voice inspiring a clearer thought. She reached out. “Help. I-I...” She was lost. So very lost. She searched the fisherman’s face, trying to recollect whether or not she knew him. There was a brief moment when his voice sounded familiar and touched something inside her, but then it dissipated just as quickly.
He gave no indication that he knew her.
“I’ve been tryin’ to help you.” The old man widened his stance for better balance, then reached down with a thick hand. “Grab it. I’ll yank ya up.”
Injured or not, it was all the gentility she would receive.
Rebecca cautiously placed her hand in his and scrambled to her feet. Her chemise gave her little comfort of modesty, and he seemed to note that, giving a harrumph as he looked around the forest floor as though a blanket or a coat would miraculously appear.
“Ain’t got nothin’,” he simply said.
Rebecca wrapped her arms around herself, a shiver passing through her.
There was a moment of awkward silence. It felt as if he expected something from her, but when she didn’t give it—whatever it was—he accepted its absence.
“Edgar’s my name,” the man said, nodding.
Rebecca stared at him.
Edgar harrumphed again. “Tell me yours.”
“R-Rebecca.” Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her ears.
“Rebecca what?”
She shook her head.
Edgar palmed his beard, petting it as if it were a cat, then dropped his hand to his side. “Now what do I do with ya?” He stared at her, giving Rebecca the feeling that she was an inconvenience and yet he still liked her at the same time.
And she didn’t know why. Rebecca stared back at him.
“Let Annabel lie in peace, for pity’s sake. She’s already a tempest that can’t be silenced.” Edgar’s cryptic words sank into Rebecca, and she cast her gaze back to the stone of the woman who had died so many years before. A woman Rebecca knew nothing about and yet somehow felt as though she had just met her—been nursed and cared for by her.
Edgar motioned her away from the gravestone with knobby fingers. “Follow me.” He turned and started forward, not bothering to look over his shoulder to see if she would follow.
Rebecca hesitated. An old man seemed harmless enough, but she’d learned last night that brutality came in various forms. It was enough to make her doubt even the tiniest bit of kindness Edgar had shown her.
